Selta loosened her hold, and Willie Hercus took the hawk’s head in his hand, carefully guarding against its sharp beak, gave its neck a rapid twist, and the bird was dead.

“What kind of a bird is it?” eagerly asked Kinlay, whose knowledge of our native birds was as imperfect as his knowledge of Latin conjugations.

“Can you not see it’s a harrier—­a hen harrier?” I said, as I stretched out the large and beautiful wings of gray-blue feathers and proceeded to bind the bird’s feet with a string.

“The very same that Thora spoke of, I’ll be bound!” Tom exclaimed with satisfaction, as he evidently thought of his sister’s secret of the nest on the Black Craigs.

“What’ll we do with it?” asked Hercus.  “Is it good for eating?”

“Nonsense, Willie!” said I.  “Surely we’ve birds in plenty without eating hawks!  Let’s give it to the dominie.”

“Ay, let’s give it to the dominie,” chimed in Robbie Rosson, always ready to agree with whatever I proposed.

“The dominie!  What for would you give it to the dominie?” objected Kinlay.  “It’s my bird.  I first saw it.”

“Your bird! your bird, indeed!” exclaimed Hercus, putting his hands in his pockets and assuming an attitude of indignant surprise.  “Is it the man who first sees the whale that has the blubber?  No, no, Ericson’s dog caught the bird.  Let Hal do as he likes with his own.”

I have no doubt that Tom coveted the dead falcon in order to persuade his sister that he had discovered her harrier’s nest.  When we agreed to keep the bird for the schoolmaster, he accordingly grew gloomy, and the rest of the journey to Skaill was accomplished without his joining in the merry talk, of which there was no lack, you may be sure.

Chapter VI.  “Better Gear Than Rats.”

Skaill Vic is a large, sheltered inlet of the sea.  I have heard that in ancient times it was a meeting place of the Norse vikings, and it is just such a place as a pirate might choose to make his headquarters, being a convenient station from which he could ravage the adjacent shores of Scotland, or sail over to Norway, or even north to Iceland, and safely return to its secluded shelter, to store his treasure in the dark caverns of the rugged cliffs.  I may here remind you that Pomona Island was, long ago, the holy land of the Northman, and that the cairns and cromlechs scattered over our hills and plains are to this day associated with the visits of the old viking buccaneers.  Andrew Drever, who was exceedingly well versed in the antique lore of the Orkneys, once told us in school of a Runic inscription he had seen in the Maes Howe at Stenness.  It was interpreted to the effect that one of the old vikings “had found much fee in Orkhow,” and that this treasure had been buried “to the northwest.”

“Happy is he,” the legend continued—­“Happy is he who may discover this great wealth.”